Page 40 of New Orleans Rush

“No to the lollipops, but ketchup is a must.”

She’d have to tape down the lid. She’d also have to find a way to guard her heart and repay Huxley for his generosity. “If we do this, it’s just as friends. Nothing happens before our date.”

His thumbs drew soft circles over her knuckles. “Just as friends.”

“Then I think we’re in agreement.”

He stood, pulling her upright, and helped her gather her meager belongings. She did her best not to brush against him as they worked. For the next eighteen days, she’d evict all naughty thoughts from her mind. She wouldn’t allow herself to get involved with him until ensuring he was nothing like her father.

With the last of her items collected, she said, “Should I change my name to Bellatrix?”

“Why would you change your name?” He shouldered her larger bag, hefted some wood planks under his arm, and walked ahead, leading her toward the stage.

She followed with her candy bag and the remaining wood planks. “Our platonic living arrangement is kind of like we’re siblings. To be your sister for a couple weeks I need an X name.”

He stopped abruptly, and she nearly slammed into his back. He turned, hovering over her. “You are not my sister, Beatrice.”

He sexed up her name again, curling it around his tongue until she felt soft and melty. He continued on his way. She tripped over her feet.

Not siblings, indeed.

15

Breakfast had become Bea’s least favorite meal. She didn’t love walking past Huxley, who’d offer a gravelly “Good morning” as he’d make them coffee, the rasp in his voice unbearably sexy. She detested the way he sucked on his bottom lip when reading the paper. She hated asking him for plates she couldn’t reach, the action forcing his threadbare T-shirts to ride up his back, exposing a sliver of skin.

She’d then sigh. He’d swallow. They’d stare at each other too long.

Breakfast was the worst.

“I’m cooking,” she declared, needing a distraction. Not only did he wear thin T-shirts, but he had a collection of adorably nerdy tops he wore around the house.

Today’s read: Talk Nerdy to Me.

“I thought you liked my omelets,” he said.

“I love your omelets.” The lightest and fluffiest she’d ever had, but he’d made them the past two mornings, insisting he serve her at his kitchen counter, with a fresh fruit tower on the side. Huxley Marlow was quite the culinary architect. He’d pull his stool next to hers, their thighs touching as they’d eat and discuss the previous evening’s performances—which music worked best, ways to mesmerize the audience without increased nudity.

His mid-sized apartment had dark wood floors, high ceilings, and an open living-eating area with a small oak table where they could eat on opposite sides. But they’d sit at the counter, side by side. She’d eat the blueberries from his plate. He’d steal her watermelon. They’d wash dishes together, brushing elbows more than was decent.

They were stellar roommates. With a bad case of sexualus tensionae.

It was also her turn to cook.

He sipped his coffee, hip pressed to the counter, hair sexily sleep-mussed. “I thought you preferred sculpting your food over cooking it.”

“I may not be a top chef like you, but I can whip up breakfast.” Sort of. “Sit down and let me work.”

When he didn’t move, she woman-handled his hips and forced him to walk around the counter. A dangerous move. Thin sweatpants were all that separated his hipbones from her too-hot hands. She gripped him longer than necessary, standing behind him like a creeper. When he finally sat on his stool, her heavy breaths brushed the back of his neck. A half-sigh, half-groan rumbled from her roommate.

Sexualus tensionae.

Cooking was the perfect distraction.

Her culinary prowess was limited to nuking frozen dinners, opening cans, and raiding candy shops, but she needed something non-Huxley to focus on. She found eggs in the fridge, cheese, and mushrooms. She’d watched Huxley and his big hands closely enough that she could try to mimic his omelet expertise.

Apparently, cracking eggs took skill she didn’t possess.

Broken eggshells filled her bowl…and they were the last eggs they had. Determined to cook for him, she proceeded to pick out the scattered fragments. She felt his eyes on her as she worked, goose bumps shivering up her arms.